


more than just a fable

by transvav



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft - Fandom
Genre: ...of sorts, Also Dream is one of phil's sons, Dad!Sparklez, Dream Smp, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Realm of Mianite, SBI family dynamics, bc i'm incapable of not. doing things like that, consider this a fix-it, multiple variations on spelling of l'manberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:08:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28282203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transvav/pseuds/transvav
Summary: dream opens an invitation to the captain early on as a joke. an honest to gods joke- the captain certainly won't come to his little world, he thinks, not with him being in some kind of out of place time loop situation in his creation realms. but it makes him giggle, at the time, the thought of the man just popping it at one point to say hello, so. he sends the message out, and shapes the portal just so.he doesn't actually expect the captain to show up in the middle of the lead up to the war on l'manburg.
Relationships: Dream & Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Ph1lza, Jordan Maron & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Ph1lza
Comments: 33
Kudos: 379





	more than just a fable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whereisthedamnlostandfound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereisthedamnlostandfound/gifts).



> hehe gift fic go brrrrr. the original prompt was like, family dynamics where phil and jordan were brothers?  
> it got out of hand. oops. lowercase intended (i'm starting to think i'm incapable of writing things in normal uppercase, whee)

the way the realm works is like this:

every living person has an energy, and a magic, and they’re all distinct, all different. not all realms work this way, but this one _does_ , and dream makes the portals in and out, and uses‒ very specifically‒ that magic and energy to invite people in. uses blood identities, or old type invitations that travel through the void. one way or another, dream sends out the letters, and attunes the magic _just_ enough to let them in. they don’t have to come if they don’t want to, of course.

so when dream sends an invite to the captain‒ old school, of course, wax seal and dragon breath and ender pearl ink, rolled away and tucked up into a bottle and thrown off the edge of the place no one else can go‒ when dream sends that invite, he doesn’t expect a reply. it’s a silly little joke that only he knows, makes him giggle at the thought of him popping in with a quick hello for no reason. an offhand thing. the captain’s busy doing his own thing.

he forgets.

and it backfires.

this world is dream’s. he brings in his best friends because of course he does‒ they’re swimming when they find the main border, and sapnap laughs when he pushes dream across the reef and the ping of his arrival makes the water ripple around him. they test the arrival portals, test the field where the border lies‒ the reef of the mainland, mostly. they’ll be careful not to go too far in the nether, lest they let the void begin to devour the outer edges.

dream sets simple rules. he’s not usually a stickler, for rules, but it feels important to make a point. “we can’t go to the end,” he says. it’s mostly to himself, but the world hears. “something’s wrong with it. it isn’t ready for us yet, i can tell.” there are a few others, but that’s the most important one‒ the stronghold will rest, abandoned and alone, for a little while longer. and if anyone tries down the line to open it, well. then the frame will shatter and no one can go in. not unless the border opens further.

he opens his gate to tommy. with tommy, comes tubbo, and the list keeps getting bigger from there. it’s a simple little place, and then, of course, comes _wilbur_.

good gods, it feels like dream looked away for two seconds.

wilbur keeps calling this small piece of land his symphony, but dream looks at wilbur and sees a kindred spirit there that the rest of the world would call him a liar if he ever mentioned‒ l’manburg is not wilbur’s masterpiece, and it never would be, no. it is the war that is brewing that is his symphony. his sword is his baton, and the children ( _children_ , he thinks bitterly) that follow him are the orchestra that will play the instruments of their own demise. wilbur looks at dream and laughs and calls him a tyrant, and dream looks at wilbur and waits for the inevitable.

in the inbetween, before things get horrifically bad, there are moments. tommy and wilbur share time that makes dream itch for the quiet, again, because brotherhood aches in ways he cannot explain. the whole of their little army crowds around a campfire in front of their caravan nightly, and in the day, it all is what it seems to be. people frighten when dream appears, when his name flashes across their comm units, and it’s all, genuinely, in good fun. but tensions rise, as they are meant to in brewing storms.

_white flags_. his throat still hurts and sometimes, if they’re listening, his voice is still carrying on the wind. _white flags, by morning, or you are dead_.

(eret’s hand feels like nothing against his own, and it’s odd. dream’s not used to other people feeling normal, not when he’s used to sapnap, who burns, or george, who’s like a summer breeze‒ or even bad, who feels like grasping smoke, sometimes. eret is not human, not traditionally, but dream has never met a living being that is the same temperature as him, and it assures him to know that eret is on his side.)

everything is settled so neatly in place.

and then for some gods damned reason, the world tilts on its axis, because dream thought, a while back, that it would be fucking funny to invite a legend to his realm. it starts without much of an issue‒ there’s not even an alert that rings across the sky or seas, there is no mention of the fact that anyone knew is here. dream can feel magic boiling at the edges of the world, some that he doesn’t understand, but it just passes by like a rainy day at most, lingers like fog in the morning on the harbor. it’s not important and it’s not his priority.

he’s too wrapped up in preparation‒ all of them are, in fact‒ to notice the lone sailboat cresting the horizon, the one that sits at the edge of the reef just out of reach. the realm is finicky, and unsure of itself, and can’t pick at the pieces where there is a bigger trouble brewing in it’s heart. dream doesn’t pay attention, doesn’t quite recognize the goosebumps across his arms when he pulls his sleeves down.

nothing seems wrong, despite the clouds that gather at the edges of the world, despite the chill that settles as the waves calm. they wake up that morning, and are fully prepared to go to war, because this is the way the world works. the standard is three lives‒ three _important_ lives, three deaths that leave an impact. a couple of them have already lost one in the realms before this, but dream really has no way of telling who’s lost what, if anyone’s lost any, and he hopes that nothing will come to definitive blows‒ he really, _really_ hopes wilbur’s little war isn’t going to lead to real lives being gone, to people getting truly, horribly, permanently hurt. dream finds fun in the fight, yes, but that doesn’t make it _okay_ for him to be the cause of someone’s finality.

he’s about to approach l’manburg, though, dynamite in hand‒ when across the land, the sailboat breaches the reef, and there’s a ping of acknowledgement across the sky and on everyone’s comms. everyone takes a pause, a breath, and glances down. the air is heavy, and tense, for a long, long moment as they read the name‒ dream himself reads it over, and over, and over again, because, hey, _what the fuck_ ‒

tubbo makes a noise that’s somewhere between a squeal, a scream, and an inhumanely loud hiccup of absolute delight, and sprints faster than dream thought possible, past the opening of l’manburg, past the dream team, through the trees, towards the docks, yelling “ _captaaaaaaaaaaaaaain!”_

wilbur stumbles out after him, and for once, dream would like to agree with the absolutely fucking befuddled look of confusion that sits upon the mock-revolutionary’s face.

they all make their way down to the seaside, and sure enough, there he is. the rope in his hands is dutifully wrapped around a post, and knotted tight by gloved hands. the waves are lapping at the poles of the dock, water gently splashing up against the gaps in the planks, and the wind rustles his coat, bright and almost blinding red against the calm of the blue horizon, and while everyone else continues down towards the edge of the hill, dream has to take a pause to breathe, blinking in pure confusion.

the thing is, dream has seen the captain before‒ through pictures and art, through tapestries on banners of halls of legends, through sketches in books in libraries where the world tales were told. and there is no doubt about this being the captain, not at all‒ he recognizes the curls, and the coat, and the sunglasses, and the name itself had solidified it to the core, but the thing is there are parts of the captain that dream _doesn’t_ recognize. the dragon wings are the biggest issue, but there’s other, smaller things‒ he thinks he sees a tail, too, and as he gets closer he can see a smattering of purple patches and starry-like freckles across the captain’s skin, and there is a bright, lavender glow that surrounds him unnaturally.

“odd,” he mumbles to himself, but sapnap, who was trailing behind, seems to hear him.

“what is?” his friend asks. “the captain’s arrival? fuckin’‒ when did you invite him?”

“oh, at the beginning,” dream says, sliding a little further down the hill to catch up. “as like, a joke, y’know? i didn’t think he’d actually show up. i wonder where he got the elytra for the wings, though, he shouldn’t have anything at all...”

“what?” sapnap laughs, confusion stitched into his eyebrows. “dude, he doesn’t have wings.”

“...huh,” dream says, a little lost when he glances back over to the captain again, watching the man curl the wings around tubbo as they hugged. “i must’ve seen a sail or something, then.”

he lingers behind a bit, maneuvering his way over. the l’manburgians give him curious glances at his approach, and tommy looks particularly affronted‒ _clingy,_ dream thinks, amused, but they keep a distance from the two at the end of the docks, respecting what is clearly an important reunion.

(if he looks a little harder, if any of them would, they might see the similarities between the captain and the younger man‒ pale skin and curled hair, yes, but it’s more in the way tubbo looks at ease when he’s near the water, in the way tubbo holds a bow, in his stance when he shifts, and the way he plays himself as the fool. he’s a good kid, tubbo is, and he’s the son of a good man, but no one seems to recognize that part yet.)

“a war, huh?” the captain asks, and tubbo nods vigorously, grinning wide, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“we’re fighting for independence!” tubbo explains, and dream might be imagining it, but behind the captain’s glasses, his gaze flickers over to him and sapnap and george, ever so briefly, even as he smiles.

“they have you outplanned,“ the captain says to tubbo, plain and simple, and everyone overhears. dream can almost see the way that wilbur is blinking in curiosity, can nearly feel the anxious tension that settles over eret.

"that’s alright,” tubbo says just as easily, all too happy to care. “knew it’d go like that anyhow.”

“did you?” the captain asks, amused and light. “well, then, that’s fine, i guess.”

“...it’s a long shot, but‒”

“no, tubbo,” the captain sighs, brushing a few strands of hair from the boy’s face. he gets distracted, for a moment, fixing the unruly mess of dark brown, pushing it all back in a semi-mockery of his own hair style. the most surprising part is that tubbo _lets_ him, making grimacing faces but still giggling to himself. “i have no jurisdictions, here. it’s not my battle to fight, not without knowledge of the proper stance and sides.”

“alright,” tubbo replies, clearly a bit disappointed, but he goes for a hug, humming happily when the captain obliges with ease. “well, you go make your base then, and get started in the world. the boys and i have a war to get on with, you know how it is.”

“i do,” the older man nods, and lets tubbo go to run back to tommy to tug him along.

wilbur has since composed himself again, and turns to leave, only to glance over his shoulder again‒ momentarily, to dream and the others, but he refocuses on where the captain is beginning to step back onto his boat for what dream assumes to be supplies he’s brought with him.

“from what i know,” wilbur says, and his voice is like honey, sticky and cruel. it makes dream grimace. something about the captain changes when he looks to the musician, though, whether it be his posture or the magic around him‒ something _flickers_. “you fought against evil and tyranny in your prime, didn’t you, captain?”

“ _in my prime_ ,” the captain mutters under his breath, grimacing before he answers. “but i did, yes.”

“then forgive my boldness, but is there any chance you would wish a group of revolutionaries luck?”

dream grits his teeth as sapnap and george make little scoffs of disbelief behind him. wilbur’s smile is blinding and just shy of falsely kind, arms tucked behind his back, posture perfect. but the captain tilts his head, and dream sees the definite change now‒ the magic around him goes a bit brighter, to more of a magenta‒ the wings that no one sees flex outwards, the tail that no one notices flicking back and forth like a cat, frustrated and annoyed, and perhaps even angry. no other part of him gives that away, however, and the man’s face keeps it’s steady serenity, with a near-apologetic smile.

“oh, wilbur,” the captain says calmly, “if it is within the way of the world for you to win, then so be it. but i, personally, have never believed in _luck_.”

he turns away, then, and steps back onto his ship, and wilbur slumps a bit, stalking away towards the walls of l’manburg as well. george and sapnap follow, and dream lingers, watching the gentle rock of the dark oak wood on the waves. he has a war to fight, though, and starts to make his way back towards the gate again, trailing slow. today has been odd, he thinks, his hands aching for reasons he doesn’t recognize yet. today has been odd, but he doesn’t think he minds at all, and he smiles to himself as the sun sets and casts the sky into pretty shades of violet.

(tubbo meets his father on the outskirts of the forest again later, after everything is said and done. the bottom of his coat is torn, a bit, part of it still stuck in the wall back in the tunnels of the control room. he is shaken, but not harmed. “wilbur seemed a bit upset,” he admits, rubbing at his arm. the captain pauses in his next axe swing and turns.

“yes, well,” the captain says, a little strained, but a little amused, his tail whipping sharply behind him. tubbo watches it for a bit, confused as to how he’s so careful to avoid hurting himself on accident, but he’s sure he’ll learn properly someday. “wilbur seems a bit upset all the time. is everyone alright?”

“i think everyone’s lost a life or so, but i don’t think that’ll matter much, right?”

“not yet, anyways,” the captain says. “wanna help me find a good spot for the new tree, duckling?”

tubbo grins and nods, and the both of them dutifully do not mention the captain’s involvement in getting tubbo away safely. tubbo leads him to the nether portal at the community hub and in they go‒ and the both of them ignore the way the hairs on the back of their necks stand up when wilbur watches them from far, far away atop the walls of the newly freed l’manburg.)

* * *

tommy keeps fucking thinking about the control room, long after he’s traded his disks away.

it’s not that he didn’t exactly expect something like that, really‒ he _did_ think it would’ve been more direct, because jesus christ, dream, they were _so_ fucking outgunned. the betrayal just kind of stung ( _emotional wounds_ , wilbur explains, and it least a bitter taste on tommy’s tongue). it was wholly, totally unnecessary, but tommy kind of gets it‒ dream’s a bit of a dramatic fuck, isn’t he, so. whatever.

no, what bothers tommy the most about the whole thing is‒ well. it’s tubbo.

tubbo, and the way he’d greeted the not-quite stranger on the docks. how quickly he’d dropped everything to meet this captain, how fast he was to trust him. how easily he’d admitted what was going on, how pacified he’d been at the captain’s side‒ not that tubbo was ever really _calm_ , in a sense, but. his point stands. tubbo, and how he had _openly admitted_ he’d suspected something was going to go down, how he’d _said_ he’d _known_ they were outplanned.

tubbo, who dutifully follows them all down with eret‒ but does not go in the room.

when they respawn in the camper‒ and there’s a twinge in their chests that _feels_ like something is missing, but tommy’s not entirely sure‒ tubbo is still scampering up the tunnels back to l’manburg. when he shows up again, he looks appropriately ashamed when wilbur asks if he _knew_ , hair out of place again, coat rumpled at the sleeves and torn from where he’d jumped out of the doorway just before it closed.

“well, did you?” wilbur nearly snarls, and tubbo shakes his head harshly.

“just a bad feeling, wilbur, you know how it is, wilbur!”

it looks like their general is about to continue, but instead there’s the sound of the enderman that comes from nearby. wilbur turns to hunt it down for a pearl, instead, and it is consequently forgotten when dream reappears, and tommy offers an idea to try again. and again, after that, after the poison is down his throat, after the arrow strikes him down and he knows he’s missing something when his heart is slow to start after he wakes up. tommy gives up his disks, and they’re _fucking free_ , and it’s nice, to not really worry about anything. wilbur gets less demanding about staying away from dream, and tommy can just kind of fuck around again.

the tubbo thing still picks at him, though.

his best friend’s still around, of course, with a smile as bright as sunshine, planting flowers around the borders in the hopes of calling bees back home. tommy doesn’t know how to bring up any of it, and it just festers, instead, as the days go by. every once in a while tubbo slips away, and tommy doesn’t know where he goes, but he gets distracted soon enough. wilbur wants to run for president.

the campaign is going rather smoothly‒ tommy begs dream to send another invitation to schlatt, proper, and dream says he’ll consider it. it’s as good as a yes, and tommy delights in that answer. it’s sure to help boost the ratings of wilbur’s presidency, to have schlatt there. he’s a politician, and his assurance is good word to the people who know him that way. and when he tells tubbo the news, his friend cheers his own delight, throwing his hands in the air and sprinkling dirt and soil along with it.

“we should go tell the captain,” tubbo says after he’s brushed the dirt from his palms, and tommy’s rustled it all out of his hair. “i think he’d like to know!”

tommy blinks‒ and then remembers, because oh _shit,_ that’s right. the man’s been radio silent since he arrived, and most of the realm seems to have completely missed the fact that he’s even here. the ones who joined after barely know at all. tommy only forgot because he’d been paying more and more attention to the election. he wonders if the man’s made any advancements at all, because when tommy checks his comm, there’s _nothing_. he’s curious, though.

“yeah, alright, big man. do you know where he is, then?”

“i do!”

tubbo brings him through the nether portal, and then they follow the main path for a while until they come to a netherrack cavern. in one of the walls is what looks like a branching section that could be a mine, and tubbo turns into it with ease. he keeps the mood light by humming and chattering along, his hand brushing across the surface of the netherrack as they go further and further into the nether. tommy hasn’t been to this part before, and he wouldn’t think anyone had been, save for the soul lanterns and the carefully mined pathways.

they come upon a nether portal tucked safely away in a warped forest, endermen gurling in a way that tommy _almost_ thinks sounds welcoming, and tubbo smiles as he takes tommy’s wrist and pulls him through the portal to the other side.

the jungle they come upon is as simple as it seems, but there’s an energy in the air that reminds tommy of when he’s too close to dream when he’s angry. it’s not _strong_ , not really, but it leaves pins and needles running up his skin, shivers up his spine. instead of the usual smell of petrichor and decaying wood, and occasional cracked cocoa beans, tommy smells lavender and‒ oddly enough‒ sea salt.

there’s a section that’s been cleared out of trees by the lakeside, with chests stacked against the sand and sitting against hand-placed planks and furnaces. tubbo leaps easily across lilypads to reach the area, where tommy can now see the captain sitting in the shade of an umbrella, sketches and blueprints scattered across the crafting bench in front of him, his coat tossed across the back of his chair.

“captain!” tubbo shouts when his feet hit the sand, and the older man turns with a smile, dropping a feather quill as the boy sprinted up‒ and then caught him with ease, not even stumbling in the slightest.

tommy makes his way over as well, a bit awkwardly‒ he’s forgotten the man is shorter than him, as well, and while on many occasions he’d tease someone for that, he kind of... doesn’t really want to, and he can’t figure out why.

“captain, the most _amazing_ thing has happened, captain,” tubbo says when he slides out of the man’s hold, and he almost _skips_ over to tommy to shake his arm. “tell him, tommy‒”

“oh, uh‒ so we’re holding an election for the presidency of l’manburg, right,” tommy says, a little nervously, but the captain just relaxes and nods for him to continue, and everything just settles. “right, because, y’know, we fuckin’ won our indepence and shit, but wilbur’s not some kind of asshole, wanted to make shit fair!”

(the captain’s head tilts just a little at the mention of wilbur, but tommy’s already too involved in his story to notice it‒ it looks like nothing more than interest in the story. tubbo takes notice of the way the captain’s tail is flicking back and forth behind him, though, something tommy _can’t_ see‒ the captain seems to get agitated rather easily about wilbur, but tubbo never wants to ask why.)

“so we‒ we’re holding an election, and wilbur, because, y’know, he’s a cool brother, he’s running and he said i could help him run as his vice president, which is _fucking_ cool, and we‒ we asked dream! to invite a friend of ours over! and he said _yes_ , and he’s gonna‒ he’s gonna fuckin’ vouch for wilbur and then we can win, because, see, see, george and another old friend of ours, big q, they’re running _against_ us, so!”

“that’s good!” the captain says, and tommy’s mood lifts even higher, which he didn’t think was possible. “i’m glad to hear you’re getting some good on your side. have you talked to your dad?”

tommy grimaces, and shrugs. “i don’t know if philza really cares much about whatever’s going on, here. wilbur says he writes every once in a while but he’s never responded.”

“well, why don’t you try writing to him yourself?” the captain asks, offering a scroll and quill. “i can send it for you, if you’d like. i’ve got phil’s realm on lock.”

“do you... do you mean it?”

the captain nods, offering tommy a place at the bench where he can sit and write‒ and tommy breathes a sigh of relief he didn’t know he needed when he picks up the quill. he trusts wilbur, he does, but it’s different when he has the chance to write to his dad himself. he’s always felt like the odd kid out of his own family, and it stings, a little, but phil’s never pointedly ignored him when tommy asked. he wants to give his dad his own take on what’s happening‒ wants to talk to techno, too, wherever he may be. he hadn’t realized how exhausted he had been until the scratching of the quill against the paper hits his ears, and the sun on his back lulls him into a kind of safety he doesn’t remember having for quite some time.

when he leaves that jungle he feels much better, a weight off of his shoulders. there’s some uncertainty lingering in the back of his throat but he doesn’t seem to mind it at all- the bitterness of it is far outweighed by the sweetness of the chocolate cookies and perfectly ripened watermelons. tubbo and the captain wave him goodbye from the beach, and he feels, for once, pretty good all things considered.

(tubbo turns to the captain when tommy’s out of sight, and watches his dad roll the parchment up with a special twine and tuck it away into a green sea glass bottle. there are etchings in the glass in galactic, and tubbo can kind of sort of recognize the words‒ he definitely recognizes the glow when the cork is sealed. the captain sets the bottle in the sand and they do not wait for the waves to wash it away.

“captain,” tubbo says later that night, when his dad is brushing away sand from his newly installed floors, smooth stone and speckled obsidian. the red coat is wrapped comfortably around his shoulders, and there’s a campfire right beside him with the wind blowing the smoke away from his face. he’s not watching his dad so much as he is the jungle saplings planted carefully in the dirt in the center. “i don’t think i want to go to the elections.”

“the speeches, i believe, you may have to attend,” his dad says, and leans against his broom to look up at the stars. “but if on the announcement day you’d like to stay here, then the tree will be grown by then.”

tubbo hums, and glances up to the stars as well. he doesn’t understand every story told, but he’d like to‒ “tell me again,” he asks, “about the way you found her?”

the captain chuckles and turns to him with an arched eyebrow, and a knowing smile, but puts his broom down and comes over to sit beside him. tubbo leans into his embrace, one of his dad’s wings wrapping around him, and they both turn their gazes all the way upwards, and the captain starts drawing connections between the specks of light in the sky.

“they never called us by name,” he starts, and tubbo smiles when he mouths along. “so when i heard my true name in the language of thunder and lightning, called by winds and rain, whispered by sky and shouted by storm, i knew what i was being called for would be my greatest challenge yet.”)

* * *

the election seems to have gone pretty bad, techno thinks.

he wasn’t‒ like, he wasn’t _there_ , but the fact that he and his brothers are living in a ravine in the middle of nowhere, and are carefully avoiding being detected by the newly-elected government, which, yeah, techno’s all about that type of game, all about that beat. but like, it still kind of sucks, to get a letter from tommy one week that exclaimed his excitement, to a letter less than two weeks after that that was begging for help.

one thing does bug, techno, though, and it’s how in the first letter tommy had mentioned wilbur’s letters‒ letters they’d never received, neither him nor phil.

dream was gracious enough to extend an invitation through the void for him‒ techno had met him on an island peak, just off the coast out of sight of the main villages and live-in sections of the realm. the masked man was looking out towards the waters, and did not turn to meet techno as he approached, didn’t even shudder or acknowledge him for a long moment.

“...always been one for dramatics, huh?” techno eventually asks, awkwardly trying to put his hands in pockets he kinda sorta does not have, and dream shrugs.

“publicly, i can’t say shit,” dream starts. “but know i’m on their side, okay?”

“why not publicly?”

“dude,” dream says, and pulled away at his mask.

there’s a strange satisfaction in being allowed to see dream’s face, techno things‒ it’s a real sign of respect, and it’s also a show of trust. let the world think what they like, sure, but never let it be said that techno doesn’t consider dream, at the very least, a little bit of a friend‒ they’d met before all of this, before dream was more well known, before techno was more well trained. so being able to see the sharpness of dream’s eyes, the power behind it all‒ yeah, techno kind of forgot that part, huh.

“right,” he grunts. _demigod._

“if you need more open help, though, you’re gonna have to find tubbo.”

that throws techno off. tubbo is not much of a fighter, as far as he’s aware‒ not to mention, apparently, the kid’s been _missing_ since after the opening speeches. wilbur had made some grand story and show of the events, but from what techno had been able to gather was that after schlatt had proclaimed his own running, there’d been chaos, and tubbo had escaped in the midst of it all at one point or another. for him to be one of their best options‒

“he’s one of the only ones who knows where his dad is.”

“...his _dad?_ ”

dream stretches upwards and techno hears his spine pop. “yeah, the captain.”

“oh,” techno blinks slowly and nods once. “yeah, i think he hates me.”

“i don’t think that’s possible?” dream laughs, but techno only shrugs, so the runner snorts and does a two fingered salute. “good luck anyways, though. don’t be surprised if i end up in some shit deal with schlatt.”

“what is it with you and ending up on the wrong side of history?” techno asks, but there’s only purple particles where his rival once was, a flash of green on a mountain on the mainland in the far distance. he rolls his eyes and slings the sack of goods over his shoulder, beginning to scale down the cliff again, and wonders about the captain, because what he knows is very, very little.

he’s met the myth of a man in passing‒ techno knows there are gods before the ones he’s served, in realms he will never reach, and the captain is a champion, not unlike he is. but the god of blood is not quite the same as the goddess of balance, and it surprised techno to see how _defeated_ the captain looked when they’d met eyes in the realm before this. there are things they share, being champions, but techno... techno wonders, quite a lot, about the other man. he seems tired.

“tommy,” he asks his brother. “d’y’know where, uh. i can find tubbo?”

he looks a little put off, at first, but techno shifts his weight and swallows, and shrugs. “i wanna talk to his dad.”

tommy brightens _immediately_. “that’s fuckin’ brilliant,” he says, teeth flashing in his smile like they always do‒ he’s lost one or two, in his little scuffles, and it makes him look younger than he really is. jesus christ, his brother is _sixteen_ , this is a _child_ , and techno has his issues with his siblings because gods damn if that isn’t how it usually is, but, still‒ what the hell had wilbur been thinking? tommy sours pretty quickly, though, standing and brushing rubble and pebbles and dust from his torn pants, and carefully glances around.

“best not to let wilbur know,” tommy mumbles, and pulls techno through the portal, tugging his neckerchief further up his face to cover his nose. there’s plenty of ash and soot, here, and it makes it hard to breathe, but techno trails dutifully along after tommy as he leads him through seemingly untouched sections of the nether.

“oh, shit,” tommy says (shouts) when they breach the other portal and come up onto the beach. “wasn’t that big last i was here.”

techno almost, _almost_ asks what he’s talking about, but then he turns, and registers what it exactly is‒ that’s not just a tree, that is a _huge_ tree, that’s a tree that reaches taller than any other of the jungle trees around it. it is unnatural, but not ugly, and not entirely out of place, and techno is overwhelmed with the weirdest feeling in a long, long time. he feels almost like he does when he’s at home, with phil, tending to the garden‒ or when he was _young_. being tucked into bed.

he feels _safe_.

“right?” tommy grins up at him, arms crossed, smug. “it’s fucking _weird_ , innit, but like‒ it ain’t half fuckin’ bad.”

“hm,” techno grunts, and takes careful steps on the lily pads across the small river to get to the entrance he could see tucked just under the breeching, large roots. tommy does not follow, though, and techno pauses when he gets to the sandbank on the other side, turning towards where his little brother is waiting uncomfortably on the other side. “are you comin’?”

“best not,” tommy says quietly. “good luck, though.”

with that, he disappears into the cave again, and techno hears the familiar warping of the portal as tommy slips away back to wilbur. techno tries not to think about tommy in that ravine alone with wilbur‒ techno loves his twin, he does, but lately...

ah. whatever.

he steps into the tree, immediately awash with that comforting magic again, and breathes deep. the tree smells like a lightning storm and the dew after, like a crackling fireplace and cooking mushrooms and pork. the scents mingle oddly, but not poorly. they sway back and forth on different drafts as he climbs the staircase, and he can’t find it in himself to mind. the second floor is darker than the first, but he hears footsteps and voices above him on the third, so. one more up.

and there is tubbo, sitting on a double stacked chest, legs swinging back and forth as he toyed with the tuning pegs on his ukulele. techno’s not entirely sure what he’s talking about, chattering away like he always does, but it’s a welcome sort of white noise, as most things tend to be‒ a few bees are buzzing happily around him, bumping into his head and each other rather sweetly, and dumbly. techno watches from the stairway for a long moment, leaning against the railing. tubbo seems alone for a long moment, but then someone comes out from behind another set of chests, weighing a sword in his hands, but nodding as he listened.

the captain blinks, and looks up with a smile‒ and then sees techno out of the corner of his eye, and kind of. slumps, a bit.

“ah,” he says‒ not unkindly, and not surprised. “we have a guest!”

tubbo falls silent, and glances over as well. he blinks once, twice, and then grins wider, nodding a greeting. “hi, technoblade!”

“...hallo,” techno mumbles, feeling a little more than a little out of place all of a sudden. “uh, i‒ i was told to come find you for help. not that we‒ not that we need help yet, but, i thought it might be useful to seek you out first. just make acquaintances, i suppose? and, uh. get a _vibe_ , if that makes sense.”

“i get that,” the captain says with a smile, and techno blinks in confusion for a moment.

“the wings are new?” he says, but it comes out more like a question than he means to. tubbo, on the chests, snickers and giggles, pulling his legs up and looking back towards the captain, who looks almost affronted for a long second before he laughs a little incredulously.

“no, not really. the last time we met i’d just had them hidden.”

“the tail, too, i’m guessing?”

“ye-up,” the captain says. he sheds his coat and tosses it up on one of the barrels nearby, stretching his wings out behind him with a slow, drawn out yawn. “it’s a little hard to pass as human around _everyone_ , so when i’m home it’s more a relief to me to just leave myself be. i think your father does the same?”

“...sort of, yeah.”

something about the way the captain smiles in return to that answer is familiar. the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, a warmth to the deep blue, a sort of tired resignation in the quirk of his mouth. philza doesn’t let his tail out often, for reasons the boys don’t really understand, but techno’s seen his dad’s full form enough to recognize the curl in the captain’s tail that happens when tubbo talks. it’s a recognition that takes a second to settle‒ chat, although not too active today, takes a long pause as well.

_...uncle pog?_

techno heaves a slow sigh as the rest of them pick up on it, prickling like static in his ears and in the back of his head. something cold slips into his palm, and the captain smiles, patting his hand and gesturing for him to come in closer. “we should talk a little more, i think.”

“probably,” techno says. “probably.”

(“you’ve met phil, haven’t you, tubbo?” the captain asks later that night, when techno slips away from the tree with the reassurance that when the time came, wilbur would be fine and schlatt would get his due. he’d seemed a bit relieved, at that, still off put by the whole thing with jordan apparently being‒

“yeah!” tubbo says, carefully scooping the honey off the sides of another glass bottle, licking it from his fingers when he thinks the captain isn’t paying attention. “he’s‒ you know him, yeah?”

“mmhmm,” the older man says, tending gently to some of the flowers, smiling kindly at the lilies of the valley when they turned and bowed towards him, sprouting new blossoms near where he knelt. “he’s my brother, duckling.”

“no _way_!” the teen gasps, fumbling with the bottle, and turning with bright eyed wonder back to his dad. “so that means tommy’s my cousin, right?”

jordan laughs, and nods, and continues tenderly caring for the alliums as tubbo carefully places a stopper into the glass. he puts it in it’s designated chest‒ a few of the smaller bees happily tuck into the flowers nearby, and tubbo watches them for a moment, letting one into his palm and petting it’s fuzz gently. the room is quiet, but not uncomfortably so.

“what’s going to happen to wilbur?” he asks, and the captain pauses again.

“i don’t know yet, kiddo. but i know he won’t be hurt.”

tubbo’s not sure if that’s right‒ hearing it makes his stomach feel all queasy, like it did when he stepped out of the control room, like it did when he hadn’t gone to the election results. but it settles easily after a second, and he can breathe a little easier. it’s a reassurance, tightly knotted into the world, now. sometimes, the captain says things, and tubbo knows they will come true.)

* * *

phil doesn’t know what to expect, really.

his sons, bless their rancid little hearts, don’t tell him much of anything‒ he’d gotten a few choice messages from wilbur, at the beginning, and then one or two from tommy, and then techno had packed up and left on his merry way, and then there was nothing. and phil did not raise his idiot sons to just _not_ contact him. the worst it had gotten was when techno had gone on his potato war spree, and even then, phil had been able to slip into that world and check on him personally, from time to time.

and phil likes dream enough‒ the little demigod, young as he is, had grown his own spot in phil’s heart. they’d chatted a few times when tommy had first appeared in dream’s world, and then they’d continued contact after that‒ it wasn’t a constant, but there’d been a few times where dream had gone to him in a panic, fretting over messed up magic, and terrifying nightmares‒ little moments where dream had turned to the only adult figure he’d had, at that point, and it makes phil’s heart ache in ways he hadn’t in a while.

_who the fuck_ , he thinks, remotely calming dream down from a nightmare, _let this boy become a god_.

still, it takes a long time before dream opens the invitation formally to phil‒ and he gets it, he does, but his three (four) sons are suffering, and it makes his teeth hurt every time he doesn’t know what’s going on. that ripple of portal magic is like an alarm system at full max‒ it sets him on edge in both the best and worst ways, the hairs at the back of his neck standing tall, his wings puffing out and flaring in recognition‒

_be careful_ , the notice from dream explains. _i don’t know how well people will take to you being an exception‒ i hope they still work. the magic here is kind of fickle, and i haven’t seen the captain use his._

the captain‒ oh, fuck, phil thinks a little giddily. oh, holy shit, yes.

here’s the thing about being the brother of the champion of an ancient goddess. it fucking sucks, a lot. phil lost his brother to fucked up timelines when they were both young, around the twins’ age‒ phil was 24, and jordan had been 20. and then jordan had gone to the end, one day, on a whim, and left a note behind on his dining room table. it had taken forever to learn what had happened to him, and now all phil can think about is the technicality that jordan is his younger brother that is centuries older than he is.

so phil steps in through the portal, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to find‒ what he gets is a view of a cobble wall, and the outskirts of a forest that he can _tell_ is withering slowly. it’s not the normal type of nether wither, either‒ it’s like a rot that grows through the roots of each spruce tree, leading to the bark falling away into dark, coal like material that leaves pitch streaks across phil’s fingertips. it _stings_ , is the thing‒ again, not like normal withering, and it’s not like poison either. phil knows this magic.

“dad!” comes a voice, and tommy barrels through the trees, taking him by the wrist. there’s a wild look in his eye, and bags under them as well, scratches in his clothing, dirt beneath his nails. he’s pale, and shaken. phil wonders how bad things have gotten in the time it took him to get here properly. “c’mon, dad, we gotta‒ we gotta go, i think wilbur’s going to‒”

“phil,” dream says, and his voice sounds like _shit_ , he sounds like he’s been screaming, and phil wonders if anyone’s been paying attention to him properly. if anyone’s heard him during the middle of the night. dream hasn’t asked for help with his nightmares, lately. “phil, i’m so sorry, i didn’t think he was this far gone‒”

“what’s going on?” he asks, and techno stumbles out after tommy soon enough, brushing ash and soot from his hair, and phil doesn’t like the look of that, and he _really_ doesn’t like the rumbling of the earth, the sounds of fireworks in the near distance. “what the _hell_ is‒”

“wilbur’s gone fuckin’ mad, is what,” tommy spits. “no thanks to dream‒”

“tommy, if i hadn’t given him the tnt, he would’ve hurt _you‒”_

“he would not have, he’s my older brother, he‒”

“tommy,” techno says a little sharply. “that... _thing_? that’s not wilbur.”

tommy slumps, a little, and phil’s teeth grit because he does not like the sound of that at all‒ and then two more people emerge from the treeline, purple particles shuddering in the air when they do, and tommy lets go of phil to run to tubbo and hug him tight. _dodged a bullet_ , he hears quietly, and _thank the gods you’re alright,_ and _how did you know_ ‒

but there’s jordan, phil thinks. there’s jordan, in a worn red coat and his stupid loose shirt, his tail sweeping loosely behind him, and his wings tucked tightly against his back. his sunglasses are tucked up into his hair‒ and he looks _tired_ , more than anything. worn out and way, way too exhausted for someone his age, although phil supposes he’s not exactly the age phil wants to remember him as. _hi,_ phil wants to say. _i missed you. are you alright. i’m sorry i couldn’t stop it. i’m sorry i couldn’t see you sooner. are you done? are you safe? will she call you back to her side again someday? when did you have a son? am i allowed to kill them for taking you from me?_

“you’ve grown into the coat,” is what he says instead, and jordan barks out a confused sort of laugh.

“you have three sons,” is the reply, and then they hug, and jordan is cold, and smells like the seashore and lavender candles. “and _one_ of them is a champion of a god.”

“i don’t like it as much as you don’t,” phil grumbles, pulling away.

tommy looks flatout confused. tubbo is bouncing on the balls of his feet, and techno looks like techno usually does. dream‒ well, it’s hard to tell with dream, but the mask on his face is cracking, slowly, and phil would like to think he knows the boy behind the mask a little more than he’s let on.

(he doesn’t mention how techno drifts a little closer, bumps shoulders with the runner in techno’s universal wordless gesture of reassurance. doesn’t mention how tommy tilts his head a little like he has a question to ask, but for once, keeps quiet because he knows better than to overstep his bounds. he doesn’t mention to jordan that lately‒ well. lately it feels like he has _four_ sons, and these two at least would probably agree.)

jordan drifts towards one of the rotting trees, inspecting it closely with his gloved hands, brushing off the crumbling bark and pulling a larger piece off with relative ease. it falls apart in his hands, but not into dust and ash like it had in phil’s‒ no, in jordan’s hand, it turns to smoke, pouring down his palm and running through his fingertips like a liquid, almost, flowing to the ground and almost circling his feet before dissipating into nothing.

“well,” jordan says lightly after a long, heavy moment of silence. “that’s not good at all.”

“what does that mean?”

“we should find wilbur,” is what jordan says instead of an answer, and starts walking towards the sound of fireworks. tubbo follows dutifully after him, after a second, and tommy follows _him_ , spluttering indignantly and demanding answers like always. phil, techno, and dream are left standing a little dumbfounded in that cleared out area, watching them go, and phil sighs a long, drawn out resignation.

“is he always like that?” techno asks.

“what, avoidant, mysterious, and altogether annoyingly and intentionally cryptic?” phil snorts. “he wasn’t always like this, but hey, i haven’t seen him in a while, he’s like, 700 years old now.”

“ _i’m only 400, excuse you‒_ ”

“aren’t you only like, 30 something?”

“yes.”

“...i thought he was your younger‒”

“yes.”

there’s a long moment of quiet again before another exasperated shout comes from a little ways away.

“ _are you gonna come help me save your son, or‒”_

* * *

wilbur doesn’t exactly remember how it happened.

he really, really doesn’t, and it _sucks_ , but‒ he just remembers after schlatt was gone the first time, something had kind of. seized his heart up in his chest and wrapped it in chains, and it had ached. and after that, flashes‒ he fought a war? he’d encouraged _tommy_ to fight in a war? tubbo, too‒ and it had gotten worse, and worse, and worse. he barely remembers tommy winning it for them. he barely remembers schlatt coming back. after being forced to run from l’manberg, well.

everything is mostly a hazy blur.

he drifts in some kind of smoke and haze and fog in his own mind‒ it’s thick, like syrup, like tar, but it’s _cold_ and he’s always fucking hated the cold.

but there are moments of warmth. and it burns, and it _hurts_. every soft moment seems to leave a scar across his skin, reminding him he is still alive‒ the creature within him hates warmth, curled like a snake in his gut. and then, like a sudden star, he is awash in fire, alight with shine that make him cook from the inside out, and then whatever it is that was holding him down drags him out of the sea he was drowning in.

dream’s mask reflects sunlight all too brightly, the porcelain white nearly blinding after however long trapped in that dark pit of something else’s creation. but the man above him turns away quick, replaced by techno and tommy, silhouetted against the sky, he doesn’t hear much until his ears pop and the world rushes in all at once. phil’s voice filters in first, and then his brothers, and then dream’s quiet mumbling.

“are you alright?” techno asks quietly, and wilbur nods slowly, wiping his nose and blearily looking at his hand. “whatever was in you is... sort of gone.”

“ _sort of...?_ ” he asks in return, and techno looks up and away towards a different commotion.

l’manberg is, very gracefully, _not_ an entirely too-large crater in the middle of everything. granted, there are still craters, and a lot of things are in ruin, but it’s fixable. everything is fixable. the crowd seems to have dispersed, busy helping one another up on the sidelines, and schlatt is nowhere in sight, as far as wilbur can tell. but that’s not really what makes his heart seize in his chest.

no, what keeps him from breathing, just for a moment, is the dark, swirling hurricane of pure _nothingness_ , a literal black hole in the air that lacks all light, entirely out of place. if he squints, there’s some type of humanoid figure within it. no one seems to go anywhere near it‒ except for‒

“is that the captain?” he mumbles, shoving himself upwards into a sitting position. “no, he‒ that’s what it wants. it wants _him_ , he can’t‒”

“he knows,” phil says. “he knows, son, it’s okay.”

“what’s he going to do,” wilbur whispers, but no one answers him.

the moment drags out way too long. he can’t hear what the captain is saying, and he cannot hear the whispers of that thing anymore, and he’s thankful for that, but it just aches the longer it goes on. the worst part of the cold is gone, now, and there is frost beneath the captain’s feet. the waters of the rivers are churning around the two figures there and they all seem to wait.

the captain sighs, and holds his hand out. his skin is a deep, dark purple, wilbur realizes, and it matches his wings. the figure in the smoke reaches out and grasps the captain’s palm‒ and then, in a second, it is gone. the captain presses his palms to his eyes, rubs the back of his neck, where dark crawls up his veins and stains his neck and ears.

when he turns back, though, it is with a bright, wide smile, full of sharp teeth. a cat curls around his shoulders, one that wasn’t there before. no one seems to notice, or care, and tubbo sprints forward laughing‒ the captain catches him, with ease, swings him around in a circle before pulling him into a hug. phil breathes a long, heavy sigh of relief, and helps wilbur stand to his feet.

“i think,” dream says, a little dizzily, and when wilbur turns, his mask is off, and his eyes are tired. “i think you should all take a break.”

“we,” wilbur says quietly, and phil jolts with pride beside him. dream blinks, once, twice, and then looks up to meet his gaze, confusion in his eyes. “ _we_ should take a break.”

dream blinks again, opens his mouth. blinks, and closes it. and slumps down to his knees, laughing a little hysterically. “that’d be nice,” he whispers. “that’d be _really_ nice.”

“they were after you next,” the captain says, tubbo tackling tommy nearby. “so. dodged a bullet, i suppose. aren’t we glad i was here?”

“never took you to be conceited,” phil snorts, and the captain grins a little wider.

“come on,” tubbo says. “let’s go home.”

* * *

the way the realm works is like this:

every living person has an energy, and a magic, and they’re all distinct, all different. not all realms work this way, but this one _does_ , and dream makes the portals in and out, and uses‒ very specifically‒ that magic and energy to invite people in. tubbo hadn’t asked him, back then, to let the captain in, but in the long run tubbo was _very_ glad dream had done it anyways‒ it seems his dad was more important to the realm surviving than any of them had realized. when they ask, on the way to the arctic, the captain shrugs a bit modestly.

“i was mostly joking earlier,” he says gently. “i don’t actually believe myself all that important.”

“well, that’s bull,” phil butts in, turning from where he’d turned over another lump of netherrack in a quick-ditch effort for more gold. “weren’t you a fuckin’ champion of _balance_ , dipshit?”

“well there’s no need for _namecalling_ ‒”

“literally, it’s in your job description to prevent terrible things from happening‒”

“okay, that is not what balance is at _all_ ‒”

“it’s literally what you _did_ , i don’t know‒”

tubbo giggles as the two of them keep arguing, settling into an old routine‒ it’s something he’s seen between tommy and wilbur, in the before, and _way_ too often between tommy and techno, and sometimes it sparks up between dream and tommy, too. and having dream there is another little bonus, tubbo thinks‒ the admin (demigod?) fits nicely in the little dynamic, even if he doesn’t plan to stay for forever.

(george and sapnap are waiting for him, back in the main smp‒ confused, and frustrated, but willing to listen. no one seems to understand that dream just wanted a bit of peace and somewhere along the line he’d gotten a bit mixed up in his way of doing it, but not too far gone enough that the darkness had taken a hold of him, not completely. he’s still a bit jittery, and he’s a lot bit tired‒ he’d invited a few more people into the smp, just to help keep a hold on things.)

the sleepy boys pick a nice spot in the middle of nowhere, where the ice over the lake is just thick enough to walk on, but still thin enough to be cut through for fishing. not that it matters too much‒ techno will go through hell and high water to make a potato farm that will survive properly, and dream would probably twist a little magic to make it happen. tubbo stays behind for a bit with an axe to help as best he can to get their house started. the captain slips back into the nether to connect the portal to his tree, and to hide their trail‒ just in case. _just_ in case.

“things should probably b- steady out before we go back,” he explains, tugging his coat around tubbo‒ he couldn’t handle the heat _incredibly_ well, and tubbo’s thin shirt wasn’t exactly good for the cold.

“you almost said balance,” phil points out, and the captain meets tubbo’s eyes with a look of exasperation that makes him giggle.

“i swear,” the captain murmurs. “i’m going to throw him into the void someday.”

eventually, the house in the arctic is built, and the portal is moved just the smallest amount to let the captain in just through the basement. his cat always slinks in through the shadows, like a little announcement‒ zenith, the captain calls her, and only tubbo knows her full name. he doesn’t tell techno because he doesn’t think techno would like it much, and he doesn’t tell the others because he’s not sure they’d understand the implications.

the family spends the nights with hot cocoa and hot teas, curled around the fireplace, and they swap storytelling every week they come by. everyone tells something different, but everyone seems to _prefer_ when it’s phil, techno, or the captain.

phil likes to tell stories of when he and the captain were young‒ back in their home, safe for them both, stories of before the captain’s championship and before the first empire. phil tells them about jordan’s competitive nature and recklessness, about their promises to one another, about what they’d both become.

techno likes to tell stories of the strange gods and heroes from worlds and worlds away. he likens them all to different heroes in those stories‒ _once_ , he says to tommy, _i would’ve named you an echo theseus. but i think your story is a little different now_. he tells of his own god, too, and explains the terms of his championship, explains the phrase of how he never dies.

(dream adds his own experiences, one night, of something he’d akin to a champion that he’d failed. his demigodhood was no gift. not every patron was gracious, not every deity patient. he tells his tale with shaking hands, and twitching ears, and a jittering leg. that night, he calls phil dad, too, and though no one but phil ever knows, it’s the first sleep where he is not plagued by night terrors.)

jordan does not _like_ to tell stories of his championship, or of the oldest gods. he’s often too modest, too embarrassed, but tubbo likes to hear him tell them, and so tell them he does. he tells them of order, chaos, and balance, and he tells them of the lost goddess, and he tells them of the mirror dimensions and the light and the dark. jordan tells them about the knight, and the soldier, and the fox, and the wizard, and the caveman. jordan tells them about the brothers he made, who, like him, are still around in different places, going where they are wanted, while _he_ goes where he is needed.

“why do you have to go where you’re needed?” tommy asks him one night, spread out across the floor with his pen in his hand and his book beneath him. his handwriting is atrocious, tubbo notes to himself. gods forbid he’d ever have to try and read whatever tommy’s written. “‘s a pretty shit deal that you don’t get to go wherever the fuck you want, if you’re that woman’s only champion.”

“tommy,” phil admonishes quietly, but the captain only laughs and shrugs.

“being a champion of balance is different,” he explains. “i have to be able to handle the changes between order and chaos without tipping the scales too far‒ it needs to be determined that things are safe, and not a lot of people are able to do that without slipping into their own bias. i’ll admit, even i have my faults.”

“that’s not it alone, though, is it?” dream asks. “we needed balance, yeah, but not _just_ in that way.”

“exactly,” the captain says. tubbo curls closer with a yawn‒ his dad opens his wings, and he tucks into his side comfortably, already feeling tired. “you had yourself, and then you were going to add techno. that’s how it was going to go. the universe said that was too much opposing power, so, it sent a third demigod.”

there’s a beat of silence, and tubbo tucks his face deeper into the captain’s cloak, grinning even wider. and then the room erupts into a mess of chaos‒ phil’s shout of _what the fuck_ stands out the most‒ and then the captain’s wing tucks closer, and tubbo drifts asleep.

everything settles as it should.

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](http://transandor.tumblr.com)  
> can i kindly suggest... leaving a comment ;3c purrhaps  
> and check out my tumblr for varying rambles on potential next fics that i may or may not write depending on my depression levels.  
> EDIT BC IM NOT CLEAR GSHSGS uh jordan is meant to be the third demigod but really you can take it as either tubbo or jordan? mostly jordan is canonically a demigod in mianite but eh. either way


End file.
